


The Ballad of Boadicea Street

by DoctorBilly



Series: The Irregulars [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Billyverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorBilly/pseuds/DoctorBilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An archaeological dig has turned up two skeletons. Sherlock and Mycroft are caught up in Dimmock's investigation of an old murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Old and cold

_"You told me you wouldn't have any contact with him, Nelly."_

_"I never wanted to, Charlie. He said he'd cut off Billy's money…"_

_"He'd have to get a job then, like the rest of us."_

_"Billy's going to university, Charlie. It's a chance for him to be somebody, do something with his life."_

_"So what does he want?"_

_"I don't know. I've got to meet him."_

_"I'll go with you."_

_"I don't want any trouble, Charlie."_

_"I'm not having my wife meeting her ex-boyfriend behind my back."_

 

*********

 

DCI Theodore Dimmock yawns and rubs his eyes. He gets up from his desk and goes in search of coffee, noticing that the streetlights outside his glass box of an office are off. He has worked through the night, almost, again. " _Fallen asleep on the job, T. Must be getting old,_ " he thinks. The case he is working on is troubling him. It is not a cold case, exactly, but it is an old case. The bodies of two people have turned up on his patch. Two people who have been dead for twenty-five years. Two people no-one had apparently even known were missing, not even their son. " _He must have known. Why didn't he report it?_ " Dimmock is perplexed. He scratches the back of his head. His scalp itches, he needs a shower, but will have to go home for that. He sighs, yawns again and gives up on finding anything worth drinking in the communal kitchenette. He heads back to his office for his coat.

 

*********

 

Mycroft Holmes sighs deeply.

"If we allow Theodore to continue, there could be yet another scandal."

Sherlock leans back on the other side of the desk, feet up on the corner, ignoring his brother's frown.

"Billy can't seem to help attracting them. Of course, it hasn't ever been entirely his fault…"

"Hmm. Nevertheless, this will be hard to contain. Theodore _saw_ the weapon in Toulouse…"

"Yes. And he is bright, Mycroft. He is well aware that we have information we are not sharing. He won't stop digging."

Mycroft grimaces, rubs a thumb across his jawline.

"We have two options. We could bring him into our confidence, co-operate and hope that he will keep a lid on the case, or…"

"Or?"

"Or we could remove it from his jurisdiction."

"Nooo…" Sherlock shakes his head. "That won't work, Mycroft. Too many people know that the female is Ellen Wiggins. There's a third option, of course."

"Yes. We could let him dig and hope he doesn't find any compelling evidence to link us to the case."

Sherlock steeples his fingers under his nose, his habitual 'thinking' pose. Mycroft picks up the phone and asks for tea and biscuits to be brought. He lets Sherlock think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimmock consults Arkady. Micky Jay braves Niamh's family.

Detective Constable Niamh Fairley steps out of the shower, eyes closed tightly to stop water running into them, arm outstretched, hand groping for a towel. She swears quietly to herself as she realises the bath sheet she had draped on the radiator to warm is missing. She sighs and rummages through the laundry basket, her nose identifying the least damp-smelling. She wraps it around her and makes a dash for her room, passing her younger sister's open bedroom door. A quick glance in reveals her bath sheet draped across her sister's bedroom floor.

"I was going to use that towel…"

Her sister shrugs and looks back at her computer. Niamh doesn't try to engage her in any further conversation. She is fourteen and moody, likely to fly off the handle at the slightest word. Niamh sighs and carries on to her own room at the other end of the landing. She rummages in a drawer for underwear and a t-shirt. Someone has "borrowed" the one she wanted to wear, of course. Thankfully, her second-favourite , in a colour her sister calls _dead-salmon-pink_ , and hates, is clean. She pulls it on, adds socks and jeans and sits to dry her hair.

 

*********

 

"It was something you said the other day…"

Dimmock climbs out of the kitchen window onto the Yegorovs' terrace. He settles himself at the little marble-topped iron table, a vintage find of Luce's, and takes the tea Arkady hands him. He is careful, but slops it into the saucer anyway.

"These are a bit posh, Arkasha. I'd be better suited to a builder's mug…"

Arkady grins

"It is habit, when I use the samovar to make good tea. When Luka makes tea-bag tea, you will get it in a mug and you can ruin it with milk. What did I say the other day?"

Dimmock sips his tea. It _is_ good, and he is beginning to prefer it without milk when it is served like this, in a small, dainty bone-china cup.

"You said you would refuse to be Bill's minder if Mycroft asked you."

Arkady nods.

"Da. It would upset Luka if I took on that rôle again. I think Billi will start investigating this business soon himself, Fedya. He is still a little shocked, I think, but he will want answers. If you cannot give them to him…"

Dimmock takes another sip of his tea before answering.

"Mycroft's blocking me. Sherlock as well, I think. But I need someone I can bounce ideas off. Someone who won't talk to the Holmeses."

"What about your little Neef? She is a clever girl."

" _Neef_?" Dimmock wrinkles his brow. "Oh, you mean _Niamh_! Yes, but Micky Jay's always hanging around her. He's Sherlock's eyes and ears."

"And Frankie is not circumspect enough for you to confide in him. Luka will be home soon. Stay and eat with us. Talk to him. He was once in your team, I think?"

"Yes. He was a good sergeant. I was sorry to lose him."

 

*********

 

"Niamh! There's a fellow down here says he's a friend of yours…"

Niamh jumps at the sound of her mother's call. She trots downstairs in socked feet, dark auburn curls still damp and tumbling almost to her waist. She pushes past her sister and her two brothers who are blocking the landing, and jumps the last three steps to avoid the jellicle cat pretending to be asleep on the bottom one. There is no sign of a 'fellow' in the hall.

"He wouldn't come in." Niamh's mother sniffs, disdainfully. "Thinks he's too good for us, does he? You've not mentioned walking out with someone…"

Niamh rolls her eyes and hisses.

"I'm not _walking out_ , Mam. And I expect this lot have terrified him."

She opens the front door. Micky Jay is outside, as she expected him to be.

"What are you doing here, Micky Jay?"

Micky flushes.

"You don't have to keep calling me Micky Jay. Just Micky. Or Mick, if you like…"

Niamh taps her foot. Sadly, a pink strawberry print sock doesn't have the same effect as the boot she would have been wearing if she had finished dressing.

"You haven't answered my question."

Micky grins at the socks, but doesn't say anything about them. He takes a deep breath.

"You keep putting me off when I ask you to go for coffee when we're working. I thought I'd give it one last try, catch you at home. Robocop 7 is on at the Odeon, if you fancy it. Or there's open-mic at the Camden Head. Will you go out with me?"

Niamh takes pity on him.

"Open mic, then. I'm not going to the pictures with you. Come in while I finish doing my hair and put some shoes on."

Micky blinks. He really hadn't expected a "yes". He looks admiringly at Niamh's hair.

"Nice hair. Longer than I thought it would be. How do you get it all twisted into that little bun you usually have?"

Niamh laughs.

"Brute force and years of practice. Mam has never let me cut it."

She leaves Micky to the interested stares of her mother and siblings, now all congregated in the sitting room, and goes upstairs to put on cowboy boots, and a green, flecked jumper. She twists her hair up, then thinks better of it, lets it fall loose. She doesn't get many compliments, and it makes a change from the tightly plaited or French-pleated styles she wears to work. She slicks on berry-stain lipstick, picks up her leather jacket and runs downstairs again to rescue Micky from her family.

"All right?"

Micky looks at her with a mixture of relief and admiration.

"Shall I get a cab?"

Niamh snorts.

"We can take my bike."

Micky frowns.

"If we're going to the Head…"

Niamh scowls.

"If you think I'm going to let you ply me with alcohol, Micky Jay…"

Micky flushes.

"No, of course not. But a glass of wine, maybe…"

Niamh smiles. Micky is trying hard to impress.

"All right. Cab. But you're paying. And I can't have much to drink, I might get called to a crime scene, or something."

Micky nods. He might also get called to a crime scene. He hopes neither of them do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Jellicle' cats are black-and-white moggies. I think they are known as tuxedo cats in some places. 
> 
> For newer readers, Arkady calls Dimmock 'Fedya', which is the affectionate form of Fyodor, the Russian form of Theodore. ( complicated, I know.) Lestrade calls him 'T', except when he is stressed and drops into French, when he calls him 'T'éo' (from T'éodore). Everyone else calls him Theo, except Mycroft, of course, who uses the full Theodore. 
> 
> Other name-things:
> 
> Billy calls Sherlock Shezz, sometimes. Mycroft calks him 'Lock occasionally. Arkady sometimes calls him Vishka, (read [Chimæra ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/144900) to find out why. Or start at the very beginning of the Billyverse with [Sea Glass and Tattoos](http://archiveofourown.org/series/124692)).
> 
> Both Billy and Sherlock call Mycroft Myc now and then. Friends call Arkady 'Arkasha'. Billi is Billy with a Russian accent. Most people call Luce Luce. Exceptions are the three (yes, three) Holmes brothers, who call him Lucien, Arkady, who calls him Luka, and Frankie Knox, who calls him Big Lucy.
> 
> Oh, and my Greg Lestrade's full name is Gregor. (Not Gregory).


	3. Siger

_The night is warm, for late September. Ellen is glad she hasn't had to bother with a coat. Her last new one had been bought for the Millennium. It had been fashionable, but not expensive and it is looking shabby now, after three years of wear. Her cardigan is warm, and it matches her skirt well enough to be an 'outfit'. She tip-taps along the street in her stilettos, careful not to turn an ankle. Every so often, she looks back over her shoulder. There is never anyone there, but she can't shake off the feeling of being followed. At the traffic lights on the corner of Caledonian Road, she stops. She debates turning around and going home. She could still be indoors before Charlie gets home from the pub. She shivers. Billy's future could depend on what happens tonight. The lights change. She crosses the road, heading toward the building site at Edward Square._

 

**_*****_ **

 

_Charlie Wiggins is on his fourth pint. The pub is smoky and crowded. He keeps a cursory eye on the football match playing out on the television set above the bar. Arsenal v Tottenham. There will be fights later. There always are after a North London derby. He curses as someone jogs his elbow, spilling his drink._

_"Sorry Charlie. Here, let me get you another one."_

_"No harm done, mate." He nods towards the television. "Spurs are one-nil up."_

_"Yep. Saw your Nellie on the way here. All dolled up, she was". The man leers. "You on a promise?"_

_Charlie tenses. He is careful not to appear surprised._

_"Where was this then? Pentonville Road?"_

_"No. Down the Cally. York Way end."_

_Charlie snorts._

_"She's out a bit earlier than I expected. I wanted to see the end of the match." He rolls his eyes, downs the last of his pint, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Women, eh? No idea. I suppose I'd better go and meet her."_

_The neighbour laughs, slaps Charlie on the back. Charlie pushes through the crowd to the door._

 

**_*****_ **

 

_Ellen picks her way over the plank-bridge across the trenches where drains, pipes and cables will be laid, if ever the work on this site gets started again. She wishes the meeting could have been somewhere cleaner; her calves are splattered with mud, even though there hasn't been any rain for a few days. Her tights are ruined and her shoes aren't much better off. She sees the light in the temporary office switch off, hears footsteps start on their way down scaffold-plank stairs, then stop. She doesn't hear the quieter footsteps of Charlie Wiggins until he is close enough to grab her arm, spinning her off balance._

_"Siggy?"_

_Ellen steps sideways and off the planking. There is a soft thump as she lands in the trench. She doesn't cry out. Charlie drops to his knees, peers into the darkness below._

_"Nellie? Nellie?"_

_The footsteps on the stairs start again._

_"You had better climb down to see if she is all right."_

_Charlie doesn't look around. He doesn't recognise the voice, but knows who this must be._

_"Siger Holmes, I suppose? We need to call an ambulance…"_

_Holmes shakes his head sadly as he presses the muzzle of his gun against the side of Charlie's head._

_"Perhaps. You will climb down to see if your wife is all right. Then we will talk."_

_Charlie shudders. He has always been a bit of a bully; a hard man, handy with his fists and quick-tempered, but he has never had any dealings with guns. He turns and drops down into the trench._

_Ellen Wiggins is dead. Her neck is obviously broken. Charlie pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket, flips it open and drops as a bullet takes him through the base of his skull. Siger Holmes uses Charlie's body as a step down into the trench, he plays a torch over and around the Wigginses; sighs sadly at the sight of Ellen, tuts as he takes Charlie's phone and tucks it into his pocket. He looks around for the bullet, but cannot find it. He climbs back out of the trench and makes a quick phone call of his own._

_Before daylight, the trench has been filled in, flattened down and another dug parallel to it. It will take a sharp eye to spot the change._


	4. You'll do what's best

"What's wrong?"

Arkady snuggles into Luce's side.

"Why do you think something is wrong?"

Luce huffs out a little laugh.

"I know when something's got you rattled. Can you talk about it?"

Arkady doesn't answer for a while. He presses his mouth against Luce's collarbone. Luce shivers.

"Don't change the subject. I know that trick as well."

Arkady sighs, murmurs against Luce's neck.

"If I remembered something…"

Luce wraps his arms around his husband.

"Something to do with what Theo was talking about tonight? Something to do with Bill's parents?"

"Perhaps. Something Fedya has forgotten. Luka, if I remembered, should I remind him?"

Luce frowns.

"You can't tell me what you remember, I suppose?"

"I cannot. Luka, if I remind him, it will help his investigation. But it could cause trouble for us."

"Will it help Bill? If you tell?"

"Perhaps. It might answer a question for him."

"How could it cause trouble for us?"

"You recall that Fedya said Billi's brothers are blocking the investigation somehow?"

Luce waits for Arkady to continue.

"Luka, I think they may not wish him to remember this thing."

Luce presses close, wraps his legs around Arkady, squeezes. Arkady smiles.

"Now _you_ are trying to change the subject, I think?"

"Mm. If you're about to do something that will get you sent back to Siberia…"

 

*********

 

Arkady lies in the almost-dark, watches the crystals of the chandelier above him, listens to the soft sound of Luce snuffling quietly against his side. He wishes he could sleep,but his mind is racing. He remembers the operation he, Sherlock and Dimmock had been involved in, years before.

Mycroft had received a coded message from Anthea Smith, informing him that she and her partner Queenie were being held captive, and had realised that Siger Holmes was the kingpin, assisted by an old enemy, Mary Morstan. Mycroft had despatched the three detectives, in their MI6 roles, to rescue Queenie and the pregnant Anthea. The mission had been swiftly concluded, but not before Queenie had killed Mary, using a gun Anthea had given her. The gun had belonged to Siger Holmes. Arkady had noticed Sherlock taking and concealing it. It had not been seen again.

Arkady sighs. Luce shifts, waking.

"Can't you sleep? I must be losing my touch…"

Arkady chuckles.

"You did your best."

He sobers, hugs Luce to him.

"It is a hard decision. I think to tell is right. But the consequences…"

Luce frowns.

"Could it be really serious?"

"Da. Mycroft Holmes could be implicated in a scandal. This would be bad for me."

Luce Let's himself be hugged.

"I don't want you to leave me. I'll go with you if you have to run…"

Arkady kisses Luce's collarbone again.

"He will not make me run. It would be simpler for him to put me under house arrest. Discredit me. Prevent me from working…"

"Maybe Theo will remember this thing himself."

"Perhaps he will. If he does not…"

"You'll do what's best."


	5. You've dealt with worse…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes makes threats

"Is that what I think it is?"

Dimmock snags the corner of the evidence bag on Mycroft's desk and drags it nearer. Arkady leans over Dimmock's shoulder to look at the contents of the bag. He sighs in relief.

"Da. It is. I thank you for disclosing this, Mycroft. It has been burning a hole in my head."

Mycroft inclines his head toward Sherlock, who is leaning on the window ledge of the library in Mycroft's Fitzrovia house, affecting extreme boredom. He is not fooling anyone.

"My brother has reminded me that you were both present in Toulouse when he appropriated it. You recognise it, of course."

Dimmock and Arkady both nod agreement. Dimmock is first to speak.

"It's the gun Queenie had hidden in her wheelchair. The one she shot Mary Watson with."

Sherlock stands and pulls a smaller evidence bag from his pocket.

"This is a bullet shot from it."

Dimmock sits back and folds his arms.

"Taken from Mary Watson's body?"

"Yes. The marks on it will match the marks on the bullet you dug up in Dr Knox's dig."

Dimmock raises an eyebrow.

"How are you so sure?"

Sherlock shrugs.

"Mycroft's people were able to produce a three-dimensional scan from the photographs you gave him. The striations are very clear. They match this bullet, which we observed being fired from that gun."

Arkady frowns.

"Why did you keep the gun hidden, Vishka?"

"Family reasons."

"I don't understand." Dimmock picks up the two evidence bags. "You didn't know about the bodies in the dig…"

Mycroft clears his throat. Everyone falls silent.

"We have arrived at the intersection of two events, both concerning Holmes family members."

He gets up and crosses to a burr-walnut cabinet, takes out a bottle of Laphroaigh and four glasses. He turns to offer the whisky to Arkady, who shakes his head. Mycroft sighs, reaches into the back of the cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Stolichnaya. He hands it, and one of the glasses, to Arkady, who pours himself a generous measure. Dimmock touches Arkady's arm to get his attention.

"I'll have the vodka as well, if you don't mind sharing it."

Arkady grins and hands Dimmock the bottle.

"We will make a Russian out of you yet, Fedya."

Mycroft pours two glasses of the malt and hands one to Sherlock. He waves the three detectives toward the more comfortable seats near the fireplace.

"Who do you think the weapon belonged to, Theodore?"

"I thought Mary Watson. She was the villain of the piece, after all. I thought Anthea got it from her, somehow, and Sherlock took it because there might have been a connection to John…" Dimmock notices Sherlock's flinch. "Was I wrong about that?"

Mycroft does not answer immediately. He turns to Arkady.

"And you?"

"I thought someone else…"

Sherlock has been fidgeting. He gets up and walks toward the window. Once there he turns and leans on the sill again.

"Theo, when you joined Arkasha and myself in Toulouse, you were briefed on a ' _need to know'_ basis."

Dimmock nods.

"So there's something I didn't need to know at the time. Do I need to know it now?"

Mycroft sighs, quietly.

"Theodore, I am going to remind you that you are bound by the Official Secrets Act."

Dimmock scowls.

"You don't need to remind me of that. But if you're telling me that my investigation is interfering with a matter of national security…"

"It is not. Not precisely. But discretion is required."

Sherlock snorts.

"Discretion. Yes. There could be a scandal, Theo."

Dimmock has had enough. He stands up, prepares to leave.

"Where are you going, Theodore?"

"Leaving before I compromise my investigation." He pauses, turns back to Mycroft. "If I discover the identity of the gunman without your help, will you interfere with the case?"

"I cannot afford a scandal, Theodore. I _can_ tell you the person who fired the gun is dead. Can you be satisfied with that knowledge? Drop the investigation?"

Dimmock turns to Arkady

"You know whose gun it is, don't you?"

Mycroft answers him

"Major Yegorov is also bound by the Act, Theodore. And the consequences of _him_ disclosing sensitive information could be serious. Unlike you, _he_ could have his British citizenship revoked…"

Arkady throws back his vodka.

"I understand your threat, Mycroft Holmes. You know I will not risk being sent back to Russia now, for Luka's sake, if not my own. You should know though, that Billi has a theory of his own about who killed Charlie Wiggins."

Mycroft tenses, cocks an eyebrow.

"You have discussed theories with Bill? I am disappointed, Major."

Arkady smiles, teeth only. Lots of teeth.

"I have told you I have not disclosed any information about the gun or its owner. But Billi knows that Charlie Wiggins was shot, and thinks he knows who shot him. He has mentioned it to Luka, who mentioned it to me. I am now mentioning it to you. Remember, Mycroft, when you gave me Billi's file? It was heavily redacted. Billi has connected this shooting to one of those redacted names. One who was connected to events in Toulouse. I say no more, because Fedya does not have even the limited clearance I have. Or had."

Arkady pours another vodka. Downs it in one gulp.

"If anything should happen to harm Luka…"

The room falls silent. Sherlock clears his throat.

"If Bill has told Lucien his theory, it is likely that by now he has also told Lestrade. We can't contain this any longer, Mycroft. Tell Theo and let him use his judgement."

Mycroft looks down at his whisky glass, stares intently at the amber liquid as he swirls it gently. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet.

"And what about the scandal?"

"You'll deal with it. You've dealt with worse."


	6. Closure. Maybe…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Dimmock come to an arrangement. Sherlock gets something wrong. Possibly.

"Come inside. It's freezing out here."

Billy turns his head a little, flicks his fringe out of his eyes.

"I feel sick when I'm inside. Need the fresh air."

Lestrade laughs. " _Fresh_ " doesn't begin to describe the biting, stinging, salt-laden wind.

"Bill, your eyes are watering and you've got wind-burn on your cheeks. Your lips are blue…"

Billy sighs.

"All right. But don't blame me if I throw up."

Lestrade echoes the sigh.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get us on the train, love. Left it too late."

Billy is not a good traveller. He does it a lot, but never really enjoys it. He is having a particularly miserable time on this journey. Crossing the Channel in winter on a car ferry is no fun. He smiles a little watery smile.

"I'll be all right once we get there. How much longer, do you think?"

"About another hour, then you'll have to put up with my driving again…"

"You're a good driver, Greg. I'll probably sleep in the car."

Lestrade shepherds the reluctant Billy into the ferry's onboard restaurant. He needs coffee, and he thinks a cup of herbal tea might help settle Billy's stomach. They sort through the selection of available tea-bags for something drinkable. There is no chamomile. Billy turns up his nose at peach-ginseng and something called _blackcurrant bracer_ , settling on lemon and ginger as the least obnoxious. Lestrade orders himself a flat white, turning up his own nose when it arrives with an inch of foam. They find a just-vacated table and Billy stakes a claim while Lestrade goes hunting for someone to clean up the mess of spilled drinks, ketchup and half-eaten mystery burger that threatens to send his own stomach into mutiny. Finally, they have a table they are not afraid to lean their elbows on.

"All right?"

"Yeah." Billy sips his tea. "I didn't really realise how cold it was out there. My fingers are tingling."

"You should wear gloves."

"I'm always losing them. I need to fix them together with string, like kiddy gloves."

Lestrade laughs at the thought of the tall scientist with a mitten-string threaded through the sleeves of his greatcoat. The image morphs into his daughter, with _her_ mitten-strings. He misses her intensely. He sniffs. Unusually, Billy notices.

"You all right, Greg?"

"Yeah. Looking forward to seeing Hero again."

Billy smiles

"Me too."

 

*********

 

Micky Jay whistles quietly through the gap in his teeth. He twists and turns, trying to see what the coat he is trying on looks like from the back. In the end, he gives up. He likes the collar, likes the way the fabric hangs, heavy enough for warmth, not heavy enough to be stiff in the wearing. It is shorter than the coats Sherlock wears. Knee length, he will be able to run and climb in it easily, if he has to. The coat is a slightly mauveish grey. Not purple. Definitely not purple. It will go with jeans or smarter trousers; with black oxfords or his grey Chelsea boots. He takes a deep breath and looks at the price tag again. The number hasn't miraculously decreased since the last time he looked. He does a quick calculation; if he doesn't go out for the rest of the month, if he walks or uses the bus instead of taking cabs, if he lives on pasta and rice and tinned tomatoes, he can just about afford it. He _needs_ a new coat. His old donkey jacket is okay for clambering around crime scenes, but doesn't make a good impression anywhere more civilised. And if he wants Niamh to take him seriously…

 

*********

 

Niamh scowls at her computer screen. She is stuck writing up paperwork in the office again , and isn't happy about it. She looks up at the sound of quiet footsteps.

"Hmm. You have sharp hearing, Ms Fairley."

Niamh closes her laptop.

"And you don't trust me. Good. People trust too easily, in my experience."

Sherlock puts down one of the two cardboard cups he is carrying, and pushes it towards her. She looks at it suspiciously. Sherlock grins.

"Of course, one can take suspicion too far…"

Niamh grins back.

"I've heard you're not averse to slipping something into a cup of coffee…"

Sherlock nods.

"Indeed. But only when it would prove either useful or interesting. My drugging you would be neither. You are far from being a unique specimen of womanhood, and I could easily use my phone to look up the probable effect of any narcotic I might slip into your coffee; so not interesting. I already know the contents of the report you are so dutifully typing up, so not useful either."

Niamh scowls.

"How do you… Oh. Micky Jay."

Sherlock smiles.

"Yes. Micky Jay. Who happens to be the reason I have dropped in to see you."

Niamh sips her coffee. It is good, and made exactly as she likes it.

"What about him?"

Sherlock perches on the edge of the desk next to Niamh's.

"What are your intentions toward him?"

Niamh snorts, burning her mouth, slopping coffee onto her thankfully dark wool trousers.

"My intentions? What do you mean, my intentions?"

Sherlock frowns.

"Do you in fact _not_ have intentions toward Micky Jay?"

Niamh frowns back.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Holmes…"

"Do you intend to conduct a romance with him? Or…" he flushes very slightly "…take him as a sexual partner?"

Niamh gapes. Realises she is doing it. Closes her mouth with a snap.

"How could that possibly be any of your business…sir?"

Sherlock nods, oblivious to her indignation.

"A valid question. If Micky Jay's head is full of nonsense, it affects the quality of his work for me. The work is obviously the most important thing he does…" He tails off at Niamh's expression. "Something is distracting him. I thought you… I may have reached a premature conclusion."

Niamh laughs out loud.

"Are you admitting you might have made a mistake, Mr Holmes? If, and this is a _big_ if; _if_ I were at all interested in romancing anyone at the moment, the chances of it being an eighteen year old gay boy with an over-inflated sense of his own place in the universe are pretty much nil."

"I thought you and he were…"

"He's a colleague. And yes, a friend. God knows I need all of _them_ that I can get just now. But…"

She smiles, picturing the light brown hair, the gapped teeth, the freckles, the hazel eyes, changeable as the weather, flashing green when Micky loses his temper. She shrugs.

"Anyway, he's gay, so it would never happen."

Sherlock frowns.

"Why do you think he is gay?"

Niamh raises an eyebrow.

"You're _all_ gay. All you irregulars."

"Ah. Now _you_ are making assumptions, DC Fairley. I apologise for taking up your time."

Sherlock gets up, spins on a heel, coat swirling; stalks away. Niamh waits until he is gone, tidies away the coffee cups, opens her laptop again. It takes much longer to finish the report than it should. On the night bus home, she catches herself with her phone in her hand. " _Don't you even think of calling him, Niamh Fairley. You don't need more complications in your life._ " She plugs her earbuds into the phone, calls up a playlist, tries to stay awake.

 

*********

 

"He took it pretty badly, didn't he?"

Dimmock leans back in the winged leather armchair. Of late, Mycroft Holmes has taken to inviting him to the Diogenes Club. He thinks this is a sign that Mycroft has finally awarded him Lestrade-status. Mycroft knows how hard Dimmock has worked to fill Lestrade's shoes, and let's him have that small satisfaction. To Mycroft, nowadays, the Diogenes is just somewhere he goes when Jack and the boys are away. Somewhere calm, congenial, and not empty-home. He nods, offering after-dinner brandy.

"Yes. Discovering that his mother had died when he was quite young was hard for him."

Dimmock swirls his brandy, admiring the colour.

"I wish we knew for sure how his mother died. It's obvious that she fell, but not knowing the circumstances makes it impossible to say if she was pushed, or who did the pushing. Did Siger shoot Charlie because he was a witness? Did Siger love her? Did he shoot Charlie because _he_ killed her?"

Mycroft shakes his head.

"We will probably never know. All we can do is accept Ellen's death as misadventure. It is clear that Charlie Wiggins died as a result of being shot by someone using Siger's gun. I am confident that the killer was Siger."

Dimmock nods.

"We ran all the fingerprints we could find through AFIS. Siger Holmes's were there. Some of them were pretty old. The system recognised three other prints, but access to those records was denied…"

"Regina Fletcher definitely handled the gun. That was in your report. I imagine that Anthea's prints are also on it. As to the third…"

"Sherlock?"

"No. His prints are a matter of public record. Mary Watson, perhaps?"

"Maybe. You're taking this all very calmly, Mycroft."

"Why would you expect that I would not?"

Dimmock shrugs

"Well, Siger was _your_ father as well…"

Mycroft smiles faintly.

"Neither my brothers nor I have any reason to feel regret at his passing, or surprise at his villainy. We have all had experience of it at first hand. I do regret that he seems to be the likely trigger, if not the agent, of Bill's mother's death. If I had known of Bill's existence at that time, I would likely have pushed for an investigation into her disappearance. Unfortunately, it all happened several years before I knew I had another brother."

Dimmock sips his brandy thoughtfully.

"I still don't understand why _Bill_ didn't raise the alarm."

"Bill has always been someone that things happen to. He has not been accustomed to fighting back when wronged. I can only remember two occasions when he took charge of situations, and both ended disastrously."

Dimmock nods.

"I can think of three, but I get your point. If someone leaves him, he doesn't chase them. Do you think he really thought his mum had just left, gone off somewhere?"

"I do. Particularly as Charlie Wiggins also disappeared. Bill knew his mother stayed with Charlie despite him beating her. He would assume that if Charlie left, Ellen would go with him."

Dimmock scowls.

"I don't know why people stay with spouses who knock them about."

"Sometimes they have little choice. There is not always somewhere to go."

"Maybe she was trying to leave him…"

"Speculation is not helpful, Theodore."

"I know." Dimmock drains his brandy glass. "Now, how are we going to cover this up?"

Mycroft relaxes for the first time in weeks.

"You agree that there is little to be gained in making it public?"

"Yes. Obviously, the deaths have to be recorded. Can you get the AFIS records changed?"

Mycroft nods.

"Charlie Wiggins has not definitely been identified?"

"No. It must be him though…"

"Indeed, but officially, he is _unidentified male?_ "

"Yes. Killer unknown?"

"If you please. The death of Ellen Wiggins by misadventure may be recorded as such. There is no clear connection between her and the unidentified male, apart from location." He smiles.  "I imagine Dr Knox is reluctant to say the bodies went into the trench at exactly the same time?"

"Yes. These scientists always like to hedge their bets."

"Building was in progress at Boadicea Street for a number of years. It was quite a battle between the council and local historians. Much like the current battle going on. I believe the first trenches of that project were dug in nineteen ninety eight. The building work was not completed until two thousand and seven. Ellen Wiggins disappeared in two thousand and three…"

"We treat it as two separate enquiries, then. They'll both be cold cases…"

"I think it would be preferable if Ellen Wiggins were to be recorded as the victim of a tragic accident. A shortcut across a building site on a wet night. A distraction, a slip…"

"It could have happened that way, I suppose. It would give Bill some closure. He's finding it hard to realise his mother didn't just abandon him. It's shaken him up a lot. Made him doubt himself."

"He will adjust. Lestrade will help him."

Mycroft presses a button to summon a member of staff with their coats.

"Thank you for your help, Theodore. May I offer you a lift home?"

Dimmock nods.

"Thanks. It's a bit nippy outside. And the tube will be full of Christmas shoppers on their way home."

Mycroft smiles. He will soon be able to leave London and join his family in Scotland. Dimmock notices the smile.

"Looking forward to seeing your kids?"

"Yes. All the Holmeses will be out of London, and out of your hair for a few weeks."

"I won't know what to do with myself. You in Scotland, Sherlock in Sussex, Bill in France…"

"Enjoy the peace while you can."

Mycroft smiles and leads the way to his car.

"Sherlock is unlikely to stay away for long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy and Greg might just be getting a happy ending. Watch this space.


End file.
